


Memory of ink

by firecrackerx



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firecrackerx/pseuds/firecrackerx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LaFontaine likes tattoos. Perry does not. Or so she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory of ink

Perry turns back in the chair to take a quick look at the bed. The room is soaked in morning sunlight, which means she has been up all night studying for her midterms. The dorm is so quiet the silence drips thickly into her ears, there is a distinct smell of coffee coming from one of the nearby rooms and LaFontaine sleeps on the bed, exhausted after their last test the previous afternoon. The sun has crept slowly over their back and messy hair. Perry stretches and takes her textbook from the desk with a smile. Experience has proven once and again that studying in bed is a bad idea, but she has worked hard all week, her schedule is running smoothly and it is a peaceful Saturday morning. The moment is pulling her in.

She sets the pillow to sit comfortably with her back against the wall and climbs on the bed without undressing. After propping the book open against her knees, Perry takes one of LaFontaine's hands and places it carefully on her lap. For a long moment she just looks at it, pale and relaxed, fingertips stained with ink. Then sighs and leans back to look at LaFontaine's sleeping face, the warmth of the bed sipping into her bones and making her feel lazy. She caresses the hand on her lap slowly, trying not to wake them up. And as if it was stored in their skin, a memory blooms in her mind.

 

The first thing Lola Perry remembers about LaFontaine is a little figure approaching her with a determined expression, shoving ants in her pockets. (It was 'her' back then, or was it already a mistake to call them that? Lola wonders, remembering how LaFontaine had always looked different to the rest of the children she knew, indescribable in their bright, endless resolve and undisguised vulnerability.) Little Perry had voiced her concern about keeping ants in one's pockets, and after spending some minutes playing together it had become obvious that her worry had been justified. Something had to be done and quickly, because that weird ant collector was starting to look uncomfortable while scratching several places at the same time. They had sat down at the shadow of a huge set of stairs before a teacher took notice of the situation, a secret spot they would keep using for many years to come. LaFontaine hunted for ants all over clothes, legs, arms and pockets. When several ran over their hands, Perry took them off one by one with infinite patience, one hand cradling LaFontaine's and the other picking the tiny troublemakers delicately.

It took time and patience, but little Lola was very happy with the outcome of the whole ants situation. She had fixed it soon enough, and efficiently too.

The second thing she remembers about LaFontaine, she could never fix. Ink. There was ink everywhere, always. Young LaFontaine did not trust papers enough to remember important things, so there was always a considerable amount of notes, memos and the occasional little drawing scribbled over their hands and arms. Perry had tried her best to keep their skin doodle-free, but it was simply impossible. It would be years until LaFontaine stopped writing _everything_ on the back of their hands, but Perry never stopped spotting a geometrical figure or a line of dots discretely drawn near the wrist now and then, to remind them of something important.

 

Perry does not like ink. Or so she tells herself while her hand hovers over LaFontaine's back, just below the neck and between the shoulders, and the tip of her index finger starts tracing the tattoo drawn there; it slides over the black line uncoiling in regular circles, like the pattern on a ancient shell.

"You decided to get a tattoo and you thought a spiral was the way to go, is that it?" she had told LaFontaine, her voice full of disapproval. She had been voicing how little she liked the idea of a tattoo since they had arrived and showed it to her. But that did not stop Perry from pestering them until they wrote down every instruction on how to clean and heal it, reminding them whenever it was time for the procedure, and taking part of it.

"It's not a spiral! It's a _spira mirabilis_ ," they said sitting cross-legged on the bed with their shirt between their hands while Perry cleaned the sensitive skin around the design. "It's an algorithmic spiral and, unlike the regular kind, this one doesn't stay the same as it expands, it's a growth spiral," they moved a finger in the air, drawing an invisible one, "so it keeps growing but it never loses its shape. It's a biology thing, okay? You can find algorithmic spirals in a lot of things in nature."

"So _it is_ a spiral..." LaFontaine flinched when Perry moved her fingers over the shiny black lines. She placed a weightless kiss on their naked shoulder. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"I still think it makes no sense..." she muttered, in case the kiss had given LaFontaine the wrong impression, to let them know the disapproval was still in full swing. The skin around the tattoo looked swollen and tender, and Perry couldn't help but wonder, was it worth it? Why go through the needles and the pain to mark your own skin with a spiral —because it was a spiral— you'd be carrying forever? How could you possibly know you'd want it for life?

 

Perry understands now, but she will never admit it. Instead, she slips her hand under the blanket and pulls it down a little, enough to grab LaFontaine's sleeping shirt gently and rise it until their side is visible. And it is slowly revealed, the flesh moving slowly with their breathing, the white skin like a new canvas and then the ink, curled in chains of words and dashes over their ribs.

LaFontaine had showed it to her as they inspected it in front of the mirror. Perry tilted her head to read the words in the reflection, standing by their side.

"Is that an Emily Dickinson poem?"

"Yeah. Pretty nice, right?"

"Hmmph." Perry was not entirely surprised. It had been happening for the last year that short poems by Dickinson that none of them could make heads or tails of appeared in post-its all over the room when they least expected them. One day she would find one stuck on the bathroom door and three weeks later she would write and leave one by the little plants LaFontaine kept by the window. They made no sense, mostly, although some of them had a certain something, a core of raw emotion that exploded as you read them.

"Does this one mean anything in particular?"

"I just thought it sounded interesting. Doesn't really make a lot of sense to me..."

Perry looked at them, bewildered. Then back at the poem:

"It looks a lot like my handwriting."

"Yeah, I went for one of those font types that look hand-made," they explained, contorting a little to see it better. "Thought it would make it look more improv."

"Because of course, who wouldn’t want an interesting sounding poem looking all 'improv' tattooed all over their ribs?"

"I went for an informal air! Did you want me to get it in Times New Roman?"

Perry crossed her arms and sighed:

"I would have wanted for you to think about this before doing it. Really, that is the second one, they keep getting bigger and bigger..."

"...there's only two of them..."

"...and every time you need one you have to spend all day out to go to the nearest... tattoo house, or however they are called... you spend money, you hurt yourself and all for a spiral and a cool... improv poem, or whatever, that you are going to have to deal with for the rest of your life!"

 

Perry smiles as she remembers, stretching a leg under the blankets to brush LaFontaine's ankle with her own while memories cascade in her mind, one after the other. She closes her eyes and knows the lines, the curves and the colors drawn there as if she could see them. A coral reef fish in black and greys, uncolored, swimming over a background of blue and green, water and algae.

She had had to clean that one for a longer time than the others. It was bigger —as expected, of course— and more complex. For the cleaning sessions, this time she was the one who sat cross-legged on the bed while LaFontaine laid back and rested their foot on her lap. The colors shone and glistened over their skin, new, powerful.

"These are beautiful," she had conceded. "Are you going back to do the fish, too?"

"No, the fish stays like that."

"Why?" she asked, but she recovered swiftly. "It is not that I approve of this ink madness you've got, now. But I have to admit they did a good job with the colors..."

"It's a biology thing."

"Like the spiral?"

"No, not like the spiral. These fish," they wiggled their foot a little, "since they can change gender and go back and forth depending on what they need, the only way to assign them one is by looking at their colors."

Perry looked at the tattoo in silence. Finally, she put her hands under LaFontaine's ankle, almost cradling it, to turn it a little to the side and keep applying cream carefully.

"So this one has a meaning," she murmured without looking up. She didn't complain about the third tattoo again.

 

After the third tattoo, she stopped complaining about them. In fact, she had started to see even the first two with a slant of strange affection. When they were healed and the ink sunk in the flesh, the tattoos were part of LaFontaine’s skin. And how could she not love something about the skin that had kept her warm through so many long winter nights? The ink lost its identity little by little and merged with LaFontaine's body. She knew the spiral was under her fingers when she placed her hand on the back of their neck to kiss them in the morning before they walked to class. She knew the poem was between them when they cuddled together with a movie and snacks. She knew there was a colorful ocean and a fish she had absolutely not named under the blankets in bed with them. No, she could not complain about them anymore.

She would have complained about the fourth one, Perry thinks, if she could have. But the fourth tattoo is The Tattoo She Is Not Allowed To Complain About and there's nothing she can do about it. It can't be seen now, with LaFontaine sleeping on their stomach, but she can picture the location of the tribal-looking heart on their chest. With the sun bathing her, she moves her hand to caress the short red hair instead.

 

It happened during a weekend. They had decided to visit the town together.

They were terribly drunk.

LaFontaine had asked her for permission to get a tattoo, for once, and Perry had given it wholeheartedly. The best idea they had ever had, probably. They should do it. Right now.

LaFontaine perused an absurd number of heart designs. They would shake their head softly after considering one, squinting their eyes. Perry, meanwhile, had blurry recollections of walking around the place admiring the hygienic standards of those nice tattoo people and asking about disinfection procedures. When she went back to LaFontaine, they had chosen a convoluted looking heart, complete with unexpected angles and curves, and was drawing over it with their tongue sticking out to make some modifications. Faced with the sudden need to put that tongue in her own mouth, Perry turned around and kept inspecting the place.

Laura and Carmilla had to pick them up and take them back to Silas in a car journey Laura swore she would not live long enough to forget, or so they said. They also knew an awful lot of obscure rap lyrics and marine biology the morning after, so Perry was inclined to believe them. And of course, the tattoo remained after the alcohol left. It was more intricate and over-the-top than Perry remembered. LaFontaine had modified it to hide the word _Liebe_ among its many corners and shadows.

 

Perry tries not to laugh, covering her mouth. She remembers how she had tried to yell at LaFontaine, in shame disguised as horror, at the sight of the tattoo and how LaFontaine had shielded themselves after the fact that Perry had been present and given her blessing. What a pair of idiots. She notices LaFontaine's hand abandoned on her lap and takes it between hers once more.

She had been so ready to get mad at them the last time they had arrived carrying the tale-tell bag with the supplies to take care of a new tattoo.

"Another one," she said, far from a question. LaFontaine smiled and raised her hand. It had a little bandage on, covering roughly two knuckles and the base of their respective fingers. Perry was torn between relief at the tiny size of it and worry at the spot it was placed at.

"The back of the hand? Have you lost your mind?" She lowered her voice by instinct, even though they were alone in their room. "You think I enjoy giving you lectures about this? If you start getting them all over your hands, and your arms, and goodness knows where else, it can affect your hiring opportunities. And other things!" 

She grabbed the little plastic bag. LaFontaine sat on the bed with a little smile, watching her move around the room and setting a stool between the bed and the chair to use as an impromptu table. A little plastic bowl with warm water was soon set in precarious balance over the stool.

"Give me that hand," she commanded. LaFontaine offered it over the pleasant warmth ascending from the water. Perry's movements were brisk, but as soon as her fingers grazed the bandage they gained some tenderness. "At least this one is little," she muttered, uncovering it. "It won't be..."

Perry fell silent.

"It's ok, Perr," said LaFontaine. "Nobody will know."

She kept holding their hand, unable to speak. On the base of their ring finger, just under the knuckle, a solitary ant seemed to make its way towards the palm. Perry looked up:

"Why did you do this?"

"I thought you wanted me to only have tattoos with meaning."

"But this is about me. About us. LaFontaine," she said, giving their hand a gentle shake, "this is permanent!"

"...that is the whole point, yes. This way the memory is part of my skin, too. You like keeping important things filed, but you know I've always liked them on me so I can remember them all the time. This way they just jump at you, straight from your skin."

"I just can't understand you," she tried to complain weakly for consistency's sake, and was glad that LaFontaine pretended not to notice her trembling voice. "One day you get some random spiral and the next you are speaking in verses about memory and tattoos..."

"Perr," they began with a little laugh, almost apologetic, "you know how much thought I gave to the fish tattoo. Do you really think the other ones have no meaning behind the obvious ones?"

Perry lowered her head, letting her hair hide her blushing face:

"The poem... it really is my handwriting..."

"From the first post-it poem you left around," they nodded. "And the spiral..."

"Never stops growing," she interrupted, understanding and turning her face to the side in case a tear would betray her before she could regain control, "but it never loses its shape."

"That seems to be our thing, right?" said LaFontaine softly. And it really did seem that way, more than ever. There they were, so many years gone by, now in their own room but still in their secret spot secluded from the world, sitting in front of each other with LaFontaine's hand on Perry's while she took care of the ant.

"You idiot," murmured Perry, kissing the palm of their hand and then their lips. Leaning uncomfortably over the water, the kiss was clumsy and it kept breaking every time LaFontaine smiled, until Perry moved back with a sudden frown.

"What?" asked LaFontaine.

"I am just thinking... if all of them have a second, hidden meaning... you know," she squinted her eyes, full of suspicion. "you spent an awful lot of time picking that heart design."

LaFontaine's smile melted into an serious expression. After a moment of silence, they looked into Perry's eyes, taking both her hands and lowering their voice:

"I was so drunk."

She tried her best to contain it, but seconds later Perry's laugh filled the room.

 

Today, Perry knows LaFontaine had not lied. The memories seem to be waiting in their skin, ready to spring forward and fill Perry with bliss. She likes to treasure her memories, keep them private and visit them at leisure, but she will concede, although probably not out loud, that there is a strange joy in having happy memories jump at her and take her by surprise when she least expect them to. She runs her thumb over the little ant on LaFontaine's hand that so unceremoniously has interrupted her study and given her mind wings. LaFontaine groans and moves in their sleep to press their face against the side of Perry's hip, hiding from the sunlight. Lola Perry smiles.

There is, indeed, a strange joy in having her blessings visit her on a quiet, bright Saturday morning, and on letting her heart be filled with memories of ink.


End file.
